


Third Time's the Charm

by SD_Ryan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Not Beta Read, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform, bucky barnes + dogs, descriptions of violence, every Bucky fic needs puppies, unabashed fluff ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first time Steve asks, it isn’t actually a question. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He says it the way you say things you wish could be true, deluding yourself long enough to make it through one more day, one more minute. Because if you can’t pretend, if you can’t hope for something better, how the hell are you supposed to stand the weight of it all?</i>
</p><p>In which Steve asks a question two times, but doesn't ask a third.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thewhovianat221bwithpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thewhovianat221bwithpie/gifts).



 

 

The first time Steve asks, it isn’t actually a question.

Cradled in darkness and Bucky’s arms, facing a wall so thin he can almost hear the neighbors breathing, he whispers, like they always do (afraid one thoughtless intimacy, one wrong word, might give them away). He says it, but it isn’t a question because it isn’t possible. It’s the way he might say, “Let’s go ice skating at Rockefeller Center when it gets cold,” or “We should save up and buy Becca a new dress, something pretty to wear to Easter Mass.” There’ll be no skating because winter brings weeks of pneumonia and fever dreams in a bed-ridden fugue, Bucky clucking and fussing over Steve like a mother hen between trips to the docks to pick up extra shifts. There’ll be no dress because Steve can barely hold down a job long enough to afford his share of the rent in their single-room rathole, let alone splurge on something like fancy clothes for Bucky’s sister. He says it the way you say things you wish could be true, deluding yourself long enough to make it through one more day, one more minute. Because if you can’t pretend, if you can’t hope for something better, how the hell are you supposed to stand the weight of it all?

“We should get married, Buck.”

Bucky hums. Steve can’t see the raised brow, but he can feel the smirk against the back of his neck. “That so.”

“Yeah, we should do it,” he urges, hoping the fantasy is catching. “Big church wedding—you in a pressed suit, handsome as everything, all the family there to wish us well.” He’s gaining steam now, the same way he does when he’s riled up about workers’ rights or the never ending war in Europe. “We could get a brownstone in Park Slope and have picnics by the lake on the weekend. We’d have enough room if Becca wanted to come visit. Give your folks a break from all the yammering. You could get an office job, something smart. Indoors. No more coming home dead tired, smelling like salt and seafood.” He’s trembling with the effort to keep his voice low. “And I’d draw funny pictures for the papers. Have my own strip and everything. It’d be good, wouldn’t it?”

Bucky snuggles closer and strokes a hand across Steve’s bare chest, fingers calloused and rough. “Sounds real nice, Stevie. Real nice.”

“You’d like that?” It makes him feel so warm, he wants to hear Bucky say it again.

Bucky huffs a laugh and manhandles Steve until they’re on their sides, face to face in their tiny bed. His eyes are sad, but he covers with a rakish grin, the one that makes all the girls in the dance halls swoon. “I’d love that, ya punk. You know I would.” 

And when he kisses Steve, it feels like a promise, like a _yes_. It feels like a foundation of brick and steel, even if the only thing they’re building is castles in the clouds.

 

* * *

 

The second time he asks, it’s an olive branch.

They’re bunked down in a little chapel in a mountain town between France and Switzerland—Steve can’t get the name of the place right, as many times as Jones and Dernier correct his pronunciation. He sounds it out in his head now, but he knows he’d just butcher it if he tried to say it out loud. It’s well past midnight, and they’ve had a hell of a day, but he isn’t tired in the least. Instead of closing, his eyes track the sweep of moonlight filtering in through stained glass. There’s snow crusting the edges, curved piles of white. It’s pretty. He might have tried to draw it once, but he hasn’t picked up a pencil in months. Can’t imagine how it would feel in his hands.

He shifts inside the thin sleeping bag and tries to block out Dum Dum’s snores, carrying all the way from the back of the pews. Most nights, the other Commandos make Dugan sleep way off from the rest of them because of the racket he makes. Most nights, they can hear him anyway. The group is spread around the dark room now, save for Morita, who’s outside taking his turn at watch. Steve and Bucky lie side by side in their bedrolls near the altar. The guys get it, about Steve and Bucky. They don’t say anything and don’t seem to care—whether it’s like brothers or something more. It’s a given they’ll pair off at the end of the day and share a tent or a damp patch of earth. It’s like that now, the two of them up away from the others, hardly private, but with the pretense of seclusion.

Bucky’s angry, giving Steve the silent treatment, but that doesn’t keep him from staying close. Old habits die hard, and watching Steve’s back is apparently one he isn’t ever planning on shaking. Sometimes Steve wonders what the hell either of them are doing all the way out here. Well, Bucky was built for this, wasn’t he? Strong and capable. Never backed down from a fight Steve started. But Steve … he was just a sickly, snot-nosed punk from Brooklyn, and look at him now. Team leader. Symbol of freedom for the Western world. It’s a lot more than Sarah Rogers would have ever thought to hope for.

… and maybe a lot less.

She would probably be proud of what her son had become, but Steve thinks if she’s looking down right now, she might have a few things to regret, as well.

There was a kid at the base they took down earlier today. Hydra. Not a day over seventeen by the look of him. Steve met his eyes for a second—wide and scared—just before he dropped a grenade into the tank the kid was operating. He slammed the hatch and took a leap before he could register what he’d done. Heat from the blast licking his neck, bits of burning shrapnel seared into his calf, and all he could feel was a cold river running through his veins. He limped it off, Bucky shouting at him about the stupid chances he took, the holes in his uniform, the blood weeping through the fabric. It was nothing, really. Steve healed quick. But that kid. That kid—who made some bad choices, whose mama would be waiting for him back home, whose life was cut down from years to nothing in a single moment. That kid never had the chance to make a better choice, to change, not like Steve did. That kid wouldn’t just walk it off.

Steve signed up for this, he knows that. He’d wanted this. And Bucky followed him (even after he could have been done, home, out of this war) because Bucky will always follow him. Maybe they’re doing some good. Sure they are. Hydra has to be taken out; there’s no doubt about that.

But that kid.

Steve has blood under his fingernails and screams echoing in his ears, and he’s not sure all the victory parades in the world can ever wipe that away. He didn’t know what he was asking when he brought Bucky here. How could he? He was a chorus girl, a piece of propaganda. He didn’t _know_. But all the death, all the shitty choices he makes from minute to minute, it all suddenly feels too heavy for him to shoulder.

He wonders if Bucky will ever forgive him. How he can ever possibly earn that forgiveness. The moon has fallen behinds clouds, the stained glass dim and formless without light. He sighs.

Bucky rolls over, sizing him up from beneath hooded lids. “Can’t sleep?” 

“You talking to me again?” There’s no need to hide, but the habit of whispering is as set in his bones as his snark.

“Don’t hafta,” Bucky snaps. “If you’re gonna be a jerk about it.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Steve says before Bucky can turn away. “Please, Buck.”

Jaw clenched, Bucky stares through a long, hard silence. Steve starts to think he’ll spend the night facing off that angry mug, then Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Well, what is it?"

“What’s what?”

A whiff of smoke lingering on clothes and skin assaults Steve’s nose as Bucky scoots closer. “You’re sighing so loud, something’s gotta be eating at you. Don’t get it off your chest, and we’re all gonna pay for it in the morning.”

“I don’t know, Buck.” He wants to say something, wants to confess his sins and find absolution in Bucky’s arms. But Steve can’t bring himself to say the words. Doesn’t even know what the words are.

“Come on, Steve, you been off your game since we cleaned out that base. I know you don’t give two shits about nearly getting yourself killed, so that ain’t it.”

“Bucky—”

“If you’re gonna say sorry, stuff it,” he says with a grimace. “I’ve heard it before, and it doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Steve can’t blame him. They’ve been singing this same song their whole lives. But this isn’t what he wants to talk about, if he wants to talk about anything at all. He watches the anger bubbling like a shaken up cola bottle, and years of experience tell him the moment Bucky’s going to pop.

“Shoulda known you’d still be diving head-first into fights too big for you to take on alone,” he says, still making some attempt to keep his voice low. “That much hasn’t changed, even if the rest of you has.”

“I can’t help who I am, Buck.”

“But you can help the _choices_ you make.”

It’s nothing different from anything he’s heard a million times over. _Why’s it gotta be you sticking your neck out? Why can’t you use your head, Stevie? You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days, and believe me, I ain’t gonna cry when you do._ But Bucky would cry. He’d cry oceans, because that’s what Steve would do. If it were Bucky turning himself into a target with that ridiculous star-spangled uniform, running into firefights and leaping off exploding tanks, Steve would be shouting his throat raw. He needs Bucky like air, and maybe Bucky needs him just as bad. Maybe Bucky wants to be chosen first for once, instead of taking a second seat to Steve’s sense of duty, his impossible moral compass. And if Steve had done that—listened to Bucky and taken a moment to think instead of diving straight in—maybe that kid would still be alive.

“I shoulda listened to you. You said it was a mistake, and you were right. I didn’t make the right call.”

Bucky gapes. “I must have some dirt in my ears, ‘cause I thought you just admitted to being wrong about something.”

“Come on, ya jerk. I’m not so hardheaded I can’t admit it when I’m wrong.”

The scowl planted on his face says Bucky is trying to figure out Steve’s angle. Like it’s so hard to believe he’s getting an apology. And sure, Steve’s being a little dishonest about what he regrets, but it comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? Bucky wants him to be more careful, and maybe he can try. If that’s what it takes.

Steve shifts to his side, facing Bucky full on. “I’d choose you. You know that, right?”

“What?” Bucky screws up his face. “What are you talking about?”

“If I had to choose between being him, Captain America—” _Jesus, it’s ridiculous to even form the words._ “—and losing you. I’d choose you. Every time. It’s not even a choice, Buck.”

Disbelieving, voice thick with self-deprecation, Bucky says, “Well, my stupid ass is here, isn’t it? So at least the war effort will appreciate you don’t have to choose.”

He can’t seem to get anything right tonight, his intentions falling flat, stuck in the mud.

“I know you don’t believe me, and I’m not sure what it’ll take.” That’s all he wants, isn’t it? For Bucky to believe. What kind of promises can he make, what kind of vow would make a difference? Then it hits him, and he sits up, all the day’s fatigue wiped away in sudden excitement. “Marry me. _Marry me_ , Buck, and you’ll see. You come first. You’ll always come first.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Bucky’s voice is a sharp shard of glass. “It was cute before, but now—”

“What? We’re in a house of God. You say the words, and I say the words, and whose to say it ain’t a done deal?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just the government and the Pope and anyone we might meet on the street.”

“I don’t care about any of them—”

“Shut up, Steve!”

The shout echoes through the room, jogging loose a collective intake of breath. They’ve woken everyone up; how much did they hear? Enough, Steve supposes. Bucky looks half a beat away from socking him in the jaw. 

“The way I feel about you ain’t a joke,” he hisses. “Don’t turn it into one.”

Steve wants to say he wasn’t joking, that’s the last thing he was doing, but Bucky isn’t listening.

“We’ll finish up here. End this stupid war. And Captain America will go home and make nice with Agent Carter. That’s what’s gonna happen, Stevie. Exactly like that. So don’t give me any of your fucking fairytales about you and me and happily ever after. We’re not kids anymore.”

The lump choking his throat is the size of a boulder, but Steve swallows it down. Unable to meet Bucky’s eyes, he looks to the stained glass. His vision is watery, the details blurred. He nods numbly, the weight of Bucky’s gaze too heavy to ignore. After a beat, Bucky lies down, rolls over, and goes still. When his breath turns heavy and slow with sleep, Steve lets himself sink into the thin comfort of his bedroll and close his eyes. He’ll fix it somehow. They’ve got a train to catch in the morning, and then who knows what the day will bring? He’ll find a way to bring Bucky around.

 

* * *

 

The third time, he doesn’t have to ask.

It’s mid-July, and if he were outside (even at this late hour), Steve would be sweating in places he doesn’t like to admit he sweats. But the air conditioning runs heavy in the new headquarters, so he’s perfectly comfortable with the blanket pulled up to his shoulders. Bucky is wrapped around him from behind, adding to the warmth—no matter his size, Steve will always be the little spoon. Metal arm slung across his chest, cool fingers teasing his collar bone, Steve smiles. Stark’s latest upgrade is the lightest one yet, and Bucky tells him it’s so sensitive he can feel the difference between Steve’s freshly-shaven face and his six-hour scruff. Bucky’s always been a tactile guy, and Steve’s pleased as punch he can finally enjoy the minutiae of sensation in both hands. Sure, Steve’s usually the one who benefits when Bucky gets touchy-feely, but as long as they both enjoy it, who’s to say he’s not allowed to be a little selfish every now and then? After everything they’ve been through, who the hell would deny them pleasure now?

“So, everything went okay today?” Bucky murmurs. “We don’t need to be worried about a home appliance takeover?”

Steve chuckles and shakes his head. “Nope. Kid’s smart, though. Give it a few years, and I’m sure Tony will be recruiting her.” 

Earlier that day, Steve, Nat, and the Vision took the quinjet into Boston to check on rumors of a new AI being developed at MIT. Bad intel on a few fronts. Turned out some high school kid in Cambridge had used her summer break to invent a non-sentient speaking toaster. After signing a few autographs and offering their apologies, they flew home. Maybe it was overkill, but after Ultron, they’re all pretty sensitive to how fast that particular scenario can go wrong.

“Did you and Sam have a good time?”

Bucky’s perfectly capable of spending the day alone, but it’s best if he has company when Steve’s on a mission. Keeps his mind off the way even the most routine assignment has a habit of turning ass over tits.

“Yeah, we stopped by the animal rescue and picked out a new puppy to train. She’s beautiful, a sweet little white husky with blue eyes.”

The Winter Soldier is an auxiliary Avenger (like Iron Man and Thor, he joins the fight only when the situation absolutely calls for it). Bucky Barnes, on the other hand, spends his days training service dogs for wounded warriors. It’s taken years to overcome what Hydra had done to him, but Bucky’s made huge strides into his own healing with the help of his furry friend, Lucy. She’s asleep now, curled on top of their legs at the foot of the bed. Once it became clear how devoted Bucky was to the cause, certain vocal factions of the crew started updating the new headquarters, constructing a wing dedicated to raising pups. Nat coined it “Bucky’s Doggie Palace”, much to his chagrin, and it’s become a favorite post-mission gathering place for the whole team.

“When will I get to meet her?” Steve asks, knowing how eager Bucky will be to show off the new puppy.

“Anytime you want. She ain’t house trained yet, so you can come by tomorrow and work on cleaning the kennel.”

“Come _on_ , Buck,” Steve says, shaking the bed with laughter. “You know I only like the fun parts: playing catch and furry cuddles and wet kisses.”

“Being a good trainer is like being a parent; you gotta put in the work, punk.”

“Oh no, I’m just uncle Steve. You’re the authority figure when it comes to those dogs.”

Bucky grumbles, breath hot against Steve’s ear. “That’s pathetic.”

Then Steve’s yelping and squirming as Bucky tickles his side. He tries to fight off the assault, but Bucky gets him pinned and goes at him until he’s howling with laughter.

“What happened to your sense of personal responsibility?” he says, not letting up. “You never used to shrink away from hard work.”

“Okay! _Okay!_ I give up, Buck! I’ll be a good daddy!”

Bucky stills, eyes wide, as Steve replays the words in his head. He can’t even stammer out an embarrassed rephrase before Bucky is rolling off him, limbs seizing as he cackles. Lucy whines and hops off the bed, giving up on sleeping anymore. Steve’s face flames hot as Bucky carries on laughing long past the time any of this should be funny.

“You’re gonna wake the whole place,” he grouses.

It’s easy to act put-out—he’s been suffering Bucky’s teasing since they were kids—but really, it’s kind of a miracle they can have this moment at all. When he thinks back to how things were when Bucky first came here, sullen and nearly non-verbal, he knows he’ll take all the mockery in the world if it means Bucky is happy.

Steve finds himself pulled into a hug as Bucky’s giggling tapers off. Legs tangled, arms wrapped around each other, Bucky kisses the frown off his mouth and rolls them so Steve is sprawled across him.

"Good daddy," Bucky says for good measure, his eyes shining. He heaves a sigh and smiles. “It’s a good life, isn’t it?”

Steve nods. It’s a _great_ life. The best life.

“This is what you wanted, right? Well, almost.” Bucky’s got a faraway look in his eyes, and Steve knows he’s gone somewhere inside his head.

He’s used to these kinds of non sequiturs. Bucky is still picking at the torn fabric of his memory, and he’s never able to predict when whole threads might come falling out.

“You know, the night before I fell—in the chapel.“ His voice hitches painfully, and Steve strokes a calming hand over his cheek. “That night when you asked …” Bucky swallows hard, eyes suddenly clear. “I thought you were just making fun. But you were serious, weren’t you?”

Steve hates thinking about that night, all that went wrong, all he should have done to fix things. He thinks about how he failed Bucky then and in the hours after, and even with him back safe, it’s nearly unbearable. It’s such a painful memory, and he’s not sure why Bucky wants to talk about it now.

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand.”

What do you say to that? _Sorry I let you fall? Sorry I let Hydra take you and torture you for seventy years?_ Making a scene in a chapel in the Alps over some silly misunderstanding seems small in comparison. But Steve knows Bucky doesn’t want any more apologies, and he’s smart enough to respect that.

“Seems you’ve been the one asking our whole lives,” Bucky says. “Maybe it’s my turn.”

Steve’s so lost in his own rabbit hole of thoughts he almost misses the meaning. _Wait. What?_ He sucks in a breath and holds it, afraid to break the spell. _Is this really happening? Is Bucky saying …_

“So what do ya say, punk? Wanna get hitched?”

Steve gapes, and Bucky grins.

“Proper this time,” he says with a smirk. “Legal and everything.”

Steve answers with a kiss, smashing his lips to Bucky’s with an inelegant dive. Bucky laughs through the assault, and Steve swallows his breath, desperate to capture some part of this moment and hold onto it forever. 

“Yes,” he murmurs against Bucky’s mouth. 

“Yes,” he says, kissing a line over Bucky’s jaw.

“Yes, you jerk,” he smiles as he pulls back far enough to meet Bucky’s gaze. “I’ll marry you.”

And if this world isn’t exactly what either of them asked for, Bucky was right. It’s a good life, because they’re in it together.

 

 

....

**Author's Note:**

> For thewhovianat221bwithpie. Thank you, my dear. Hope you like it.
> 
> If interested, you can find me on tumblr at this-simple-mind. Stop by if you like pictures of pretty superheroes and feminist discourse. And I'd love it if you checked out my other Stucky fics - angst and fluff seems to be my specialty. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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